Charmed Thirds_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [42]
“So, Jess,” Bridget said as she yanked off her press-on nails in the passenger side of Pepe's hand-me-down Subaru station wagon. (I assure you that all jokes about this car and Pepe and Bridget's nauseating domesticity have already been made.) “You never told us why Marcus didn't come.”
“He said he didn't feel like dressing up,” I replied.
“Isn't this the same person who came to school wearing a jacket and tie because he thought he needed to look like a goody-goody honor student?” Jane asked.
“Well, yeah,” I replied.
“And didn't he for a while wear teenybopper T-shirts, like Britney Spears, on purpose?”
“He never wore Britney . . . ,” I began.
“I remember his Backstreet Boys shirt,” Bridget piped in. “And Dawson's Creek. And he wore days of the week T-shirts, too. Except on Tuesdays he wore a black shirt, in tribute to 9/11. And then there was the GAME MASTER T-shirt. And the YOU, YES, YOU T-shirt . . .”
“Christ, Bridget,” I snapped. “Who are you? Sara? Why have you paid so much attention to my boyfriend's wardrobe?”
“Well, J,” Jane said. “Marcus must have wanted to be noticed. Isn't that why he dressed that way? It's kind of like his . . .”
“His what?” I asked.
“His shtick.”
Bridget knew how much this remark would bother me and came to Marcus's—and indirectly, my—defense. “But he was wearing a plain white T-shirt when I saw him the other day.”
“When I saw him, too,” Pepe said.
“That's what he was wearing when I met him,” Jane said. “It must be his new shtick.”
“No, no, no,” I protested. “He just doesn't want to be bothered with choosing an outfit . . .”
“Or maybe Marcus is sending a message by not sending a message at all.”
It irritated me that Jane had declared herself an expert on my boyfriend and was passing judgment on his character after meeting him for all of two minutes. But it's hard to have a serious discussion when you're wearing acid wash and white leather, so I didn't say anything about it the rest of the way home.
“You're mad,” Jane said later, as we stood side by side in my bathroom, rubbing off our makeup. The lipstick, the orange concealer, the red war-paint blush all came off easily with soap and water. The mascara was impenetrable and, evidently, permanent.
“I'm not mad,” I said, scrubbing one eye roughly with a washcloth, as if it were the blackened bottom of a burnt pot. “I'm annoyed.”
“At who?”
“At who?” I asked, incredulous. “At you!”
She dragged a brush through her crunchy hair, scattering Aqua Net shrapnel all over the countertop. “I was just making an observation about Marcus, one that you would totally make if he were anyone else's boyfriend.”
Anyone's, I thought, but yours. Was I a bad friend because I couldn't be as candid with my “observations”? Then I rejected the question. There's a very good reason why I can't share her candor: Marcus might be shticky, but Jake (bleeech!) is . . . uh . . . dicky.
“Hey,” she said, holding a cotton ball up to my eye. “I've got the right makeup remover for that. You must let me help you.” And before I could protest, she very gingerly dabbed at my lashes until every last bit of artifice had vanished. I felt Jane's warm, licorice-spiced breath on my face and imagined that my own smelled of the same flavor of Altoids. Then I thought about how Hope and I would never do this for each other. We were not touchy-feely friends. I can think of three times that we've hugged: (1) the day her brother died, (2) the day she moved away, and (3) the day she surprised me on the football field at my high school graduation, our first reunion since hug #2.
Our friendship ran deeper than any demonstrative displays of affection.
“See?” Jane asked, holding up the blackened lump of cotton. “What would you do without me?”
“I don't know,” I said truthfully.
And that's when I decided to forgive Jane for being a poor judge of boyfriend material. This doesn't make her a bad person. Just a very unfortunate one.
the eleventh
Jane made an important announcement on line for the bus back to Boston.
“J,” she said. “I must tell you something.”
“Okay,